


suppliant on your curious knees

by driedvoices



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've been thinking about your lesson." Coda to the beach episode, mild D/s themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	suppliant on your curious knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iki_teru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iki_teru/gifts).



He should not be quite so surprised, when she gets her revenge. He doesn't show it, of course; an Ootori is above that, especially Kyoya, especially a third son. But _he_ knows it, and the shock is swallowed up by the guilt that it was ever there in the first place, guilt that sits as heavy on his chest as she does--although, he allows himself a small smile, it is somewhat less twitchy. She shifts atop him and—his face is still, that's what matters. 

"Haruhi," he greets, and flexes his wrists. Her grip tightens uncomfortably. 

"Good evening, senpai," she says, low and even. 

The hem of her dress is brushing his stomach lightly, her knees tight around his thighs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"I've been thinking about your lesson," she tells him. Her hips roll experimentally and he does not, will not groan. 

"You are determined to make it seem inapplicable."

She smiles. "You noticed." It's not a lie on his part. He could flip her, if he tried. She is smaller, weaker, but all her weight is concentrated on keeping him _down_ , and whatever he could do now, it wouldn't be neat. It wouldn't prove anything. So he lies still beneath her. "If you're looking for an apology—"

"Don't be foolish," she chastises. Her breath is suddenly very close to his face, and without his glasses on her edges are deliciously blurred, the dark of her eyes bleeding into hair bleeding into shadow and she could be vast, like this, encompassing. He swallows.

"I know you lie, Kyoya-senpai," she continues. "That's your mask and I won't force you out of it. And I know you know when you're at fault, and I don't need you to explain it to me."

"Then—"

"I've been thinking of your rule, too."

"My—ah," he breathes, because those are her teeth on his jaw, that is the barest touch of her tongue. "Merit?"

"I don't think it's that important to me," she says, and her teeth move to his mouth. 

She does not kiss like any girl Kyoya has ever kissed, nor any boy, either. She kisses like Haruhi: inexperienced, which data has told him, but data said nothing about her quiet fury, the way she _demands_ —Kyoya gives a moan, broken, because he does not know what she is asking, and because he wants to give it to her. 

When she pulls back, just barely, to let him breathe, he manages, "Tamaki--"

"—calls me his daughter," Haruhi smiles wryly. "I'm willing to entertain it as long as he is." She does not lean back in immediately, and this, as Kyoya understands it, is his out; he does not want it. He thrusts his hips up and her smile doesn't widen, but it extends to her eyes, gleaming, golden. She kisses him again and holds his wrists that much tighter.

He realizes, then, that this is submitting. This is what they've asked her to do, a thousand times, a thousand ways. He thinks of when he knelt over her, a mirror of this moment; control was not what he felt. 

One of Haruhi's hands slinks down his stomach to his trousers, and he groans. He tries to help her with the button, tries to gain some kind ground, but he's barely moved before she says, "Don't," and his arm falls back to the mattress, heavy as lead. She fumbles with his zipper for a few agonizing moments before she frees him, and her small hand around his cock is enough to make him buck and choke. She pumps him once before he hears the crinkle of foil, only hears it because her face is all he sees in the dark, and he really doesn't want to know where she found that, so he just closes his eyes and lets himself feel, moans when she rolls the condom onto him with cool determination. 

She sinks down way too fast, he can tell by her whimper, just barely audible over his own, and he is mildly distracted from the feel of her around him, hot and sweet and tight as a vise, by the realization that she hadn't been wearing underwear, by the thought of her rubbing wetly against his trousers. His hips twitch, drive up into her and she gasps, half-shocked and half annoyed. She bears down on him purposefully, thighs solid around him and fingernails digging into the soft skin of his wrists. When she rocks her hips, she exhales shakily, searching for a rhythm, and Kyoya would give it to her, would show her if he could just _move_ , but. That's not what this—whatever this is—it's not how this works. He bites his lip and tries not to come before she does. Somehow he doesn't think she'd approve of that, either. 

Her thrusts grow more confident as she gets used to the feel of him, more controlled, more forceful. All manner of unseemly noises are clamoring out of his throat, into Haruhi's when she leans down to lick into his mouth, and Kyoya doesn't think he's ever actually been this hard in his life. When Haruhi sighs, feather-light against his lips, he tries to pull his wrists free, wriggles his hips to get her attention, and he says, "I want to touch you, just let me—"

"No," she says sharply, and it's enough to make him want to _cry_. His head hits the mattress, not protesting. Her breathing is coming quicker, louder, and she sinks down on him once more, _hard_ , before she lets out a single throaty gasp that sounds more like surprise than anything. She tightens around him like noose, but he has to wait, he _knows_ he has to wait—

"Now," she says, hoarse and ragged, "c'mon, now," and he does, bucks up into her with a strangled scream and shuts his eyes so tight he thinks they may never open again. Haruhi's hands are softer now, stroking the insides of his forearms, urging and comforting all at once. His whole body is shaking, struggling to come down, and it doesn't stop until she leans down to cover him, to quiet him with her mouth. 

He feels her roll off of him with a slick, satisfying noise, feels her fingers, light and deft, as they pluck off the condom and tie it off, but he doesn't come to, not really, until she kisses his forehead lightly and says, "Kyoya."

He opens his eyes. "Haruhi."

"You enjoyed that." There's a slight quirk to her eyebrow, one that he can't identify. He wants to run his fingers over it, to trace, to memorize, but there will be other times for that. Times when he can feel his fingers, for example. 

"Yes," he says plainly. 

"There are ways that a woman can be stronger than a man," Haruhi says, and it bothers him that it's not a non-sequitur. But Haruhi had said that she knew that he lied, _why_ he lies, and this can be what he knows of her: that nothing she says is a lie but is an ornamentation, that she might not look for merit but she hides behind the pretense of it, once all is done. 

"There are ways that you are stronger than me," he answers. She doesn't kiss him, but the look on her face is enough.


End file.
